


T.O.

by dormiensa



Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Gen, Minor Violence, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: Toronto knew he didn’t stand out.





	T.O.

Toronto knew he didn’t stand out.

For one thing, despite his Eurasian features, he looked non-descript. He looked like a Masters’ candidate for some obscure Arts sub-specialty: shy, socially awkward, bookish-slash-dorky, naïve, serious, fumbling, and to be bossed around by the PhDs and post-docs. He could walk down any street in the world and not attract attention. It even took his siblings time to notice him in the room.

His siblings. Those who didn’t openly mock him, like Montreal, still considered him foolish. Mississauga managed to get a notarization to appropriate his parking spot. He was pretty sure Edmonton teethed his non-expiring Metropass. Yellowknife gave him his hand-me-downs, the ones he couldn’t give away to charity because they were so tattered.

It wasn’t that he had no dress sense. The problem was that whenever he attempted to find his personal style, his siblings jeered. He gave up dressing in ethnic clothes, especially to attend the numerous festivals among his humans, because he was constantly accused of cultural appropriation. He’d given them one of the most multicultural and socially diverse places to call home and yet… But no matter, that was the problem about looking like a mix of everybody: none of the ethnic groups felt he was one of them.

So, nowadays, he wore non-descript jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, what no one realized was that his T-shirt always managed to be the exact same colour as the sky above on any given day in his city. It’d been a gift from a mysterious weaver he’d met while backpacking the Himalayas.

In his youth, Toronto had backpacked across the entire Eurasian continent. And the more remote the location, the more determined he was to explore, the longer he stayed. His siblings just rolled their eyes whenever an obscure location was mentioned in the news and he could give its coordinates. 

But Toronto didn’t mind (most of the time). He knew he had worth. And purpose. No matter how small and insignificant a contribution to the world, he was making one. Because he was still alive.

He’d been given this lesson by yet another chance encounter. He was in Tuscany, meandering the narrow lanes of one of the villages, when he came across a gang of thugs beating up a prostrate figure on the cobble-stoned path. He’d taken out the penis-shaped whistle that was his souvenir to Regina and began shouting for help. No one came, but the thugs ran off.

As he bent over the bleeding woman, ineffectively dabbling at the open cuts with his packet of tissues and asking if she was alright, she coughed and looked up at him. And smiled. One small smile, but it transformed her. He saw past the injuries, past the blackened skin that looked like scabbed over fourth degree burns, past the long-suffering posture. In her prime, she’d been beautiful.

She’d then removed the hands that’d been pressed against her bosom, revealing what she wouldn’t give up to the thugs: at first glance, it looked like a red dildo but (after he did some research) turned out to be a magnolia seed pod. An immortal seed pod, for every year, without fail, it would burst open to reveal its red berries, which blossomed into beautiful trees wherever they were planted.

She’d pressed the pod into his hands, along with a small bronze coin engraved with a winged penis, given him another smile, and breathed her last.

He now wore the coin as a talisman around his neck. He kept it hidden from staring eyes under his T-shirt. For him, it was a reminder that, so long as he was still breathing and upright, he couldn’t give up.


End file.
